Why does Ding Yuxi (丁禹兮) wear a red sash in his new costume drama? And why did ancient Chinese grooms and scholars drape themselves in crimson silk? The answer lies in a forgotten tradition called Pi Hong (披红), or “red draping,” which once marked life’s biggest milestones—from wedding chambers to imperial exam halls. Today, that same vibrant hue survives in graduation sashes and award ceremony ribbons, though we barely recognize its thousand-year-old roots. This article unpacks the ritual, its symbolism, and why a simple piece of red fabric still carries the weight of joy, honor, and human hope.
The Crimson Cloak of Celebration
In the hit period drama The Road to Splendor (花开锦绣), actor Ding Yuxi reprises his role opposite Deng Enxi (邓恩熙), and his character Zhao Ling (赵凌) appears in a striking red sash during a wedding scene. Social media buzzed with curiosity—why the extra cloth? Historically, this was Pi Hong, a broad silk or brocade band worn over the shoulder and across the chest. It flourished during the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644), when red symbolized fire, fortune, and yang energy. Unlike a full ceremonial robe, it was a versatile overlay, used for both scholar’s triumph and a commoner’s nuptials.
The practice first gained fame among exam candidates. Newly minted jinshi (进士)—imperial scholars—would drape red over their plain Confucian robes before receiving official court attire. It was a provisional badge of glory, a visual shout of “I made it.” Ming literature, like the novel Joyous Rivals (欢喜冤家), describes a protagonist “wearing red and flower pins, parading through the streets to banquets.” So the sash wasn’t just decoration; it was a public announcement of personal victory, worn until the state conferred its own formal garments.
For weddings, the rule relaxed. Ordinary grooms, lacking noble ranks, adopted the red drape as their equivalent of a tuxedo. It turned a simple festive robe into a statement of completeness. In some regional customs, the groom’s maternal uncle—a senior family figure—would personally tie the sash just before the bride entered, linking the ritual to lineage blessings. The fabric’s texture mattered too: silk, satin, and brocade were common, but the real message lay in the embroidered patterns.
Symbols Woven in Silk
Every motif on a Pi Hong carried a specific wish. For weddings, pomegranates dominated, because their many seeds promised “a hundred sons and grandsons.” For scholars, the sash featured babao (八宝)—the Eight Treasures—or miscellaneous auspicious emblems, to pray for smooth official careers and endless promotions. And then there was the entwining lotus, a universal pattern for perpetual wealth and nobility, suitable for any occasion. Color plus image doubled the blessing, turning a piece of cloth into a tangible prayer.
But the sash didn’t stand alone. It paired with another ritual: Zanhua (簪花), or hair-pinning flowers. Men wore floral ornaments—one on each side of their official hat—not as feminine adornment but as marks of honor. The flowers could be silk or velvet for modest families, or gold and jewel-encrusted for the wealthy. Ming tomb excavations have uncovered exquisite gold hairpins shaped like blossoms, proving that even in death, men carried these symbols of achievements. The local magistrate or a close elder would pin them during ceremonies, a gesture of communal recognition that mirrored the sash’s donning.
Together, the red drape and floral pins created a layered language of joy. They were not formal court regalia but rather “ceremonial casuals”—a way to elevate everyday attire to festive dignity. This duality explains why Ming commoners embraced them: they offered aristocratic flair without violating sumptuary laws. And because they were detachable, they could be reused, passed down, or adjusted for different life events, making them practical heirlooms of happiness.
From Ancient Sash to Modern Ribbon
So where did this tradition go? It never vanished—it merely simplified. Today, when a student receives a scholarship, the red sash or rosette pinned to their chest is a direct descendant of Pi Hong. Graduation ceremony stoles, award banquet sashes, even the red flowers on a newlywed’s car—all echo that Ming dynasty custom. We rarely pause to notice, but the color and the act of draping remain unchanged. It’s our indigenous “ceremonial ribbon,” a silent nod to ancestors who believed that wearing red invited cosmic favor.
Consider the modern “big red flower” worn by honorees in China. It’s pinned over the heart, much like the ancient sash crossed the chest. The material shifted from silk to satin or plastic, and the embroidery gave way to printed characters, but the gesture stays: public recognition through wearable color. Even the Western-style sashes for pageants or academic regalia share this DNA—a global human instinct to use fabric as a marker of exceptional moments.
What we lose in intricate patterns, we gain in accessibility. No longer restricted to scholars or grooms, the red sash now adorns anyone celebrating a promotion, a birthday, or a community award. The ritual has democratized. And while we might not chant ancient blessings, the emotional core persists: a splash of crimson lifts spirits, connects us to our past, and reminds us that joy, like red, is universally understood. Next time you see a ribbon at a ceremony, remember—it’s not just decoration. It’s a thousand years of hope, folded into a single, brilliant stripe.